


Rising I: Redux

by MFLuder



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Canon Related, Developing Friendships, Episode Remix, Episode: s01e01 Rising, Female John Sheppard, Gen, Women in the Military, and some additional flirting that would happen because John is a woman, but there is canon flirting, hints of f!John Sheppard/Teyla Emmagan, this is gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:09:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26004715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MFLuder/pseuds/MFLuder
Summary: One day Major Joan Sheppard is ferrying scientists during her cold exile; the next she's being attacked by ancient weapons and learning there's whole other galaxies to fly in.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 12
Collections: Rule 63 Exchange 2020





	Rising I: Redux

**Author's Note:**

  * For [minuseven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/minuseven/gifts).



> The prompt asked for no smut and lots of general focus on SGA 'verse. That made this idea come relatively easy. If I could, I'd rewrite the whole show with Joan Sheppard, just to see the differences.
> 
> I hope this fic brings you a little fem!Sheppard joy, minuseven!

Sheppard doesn’t know, when she picks up General O’Neill – a man who seems to have great respect from those at McMurdo but whom she’s never heard of, despite him being Air Force – that her life is about to drastically change.

In fact, Joan had just been settling into life at the Antarctic base, shuttling scientists and military personnel around the continent for various research projects and whatever that new outpost was some two hundred klicks away. It suits her. She doesn’t have to talk to many people aside from a few pleasantries, she can wear the warmer gear that covers her body shape, and well. Alright, the food’s awful. She’s lived on ramen before though, and a few extra miles and push-ups to burn off the high salt content only mean she’s got something else to do for twenty minutes of her routine day.

If anything, she’s almost annoyed with the general. Most of her passengers sit quiet or talk ice cores at each other and leave her alone. Still, when O’Neill asks after her background and training, she finds herself answering honestly, and not only because he’s a superior officer.

“Apache, Black Hawk, Cobra, Osprey,” she responds, when he asks her favorite things to fly.

“That's a lot of training for the Antarctic.” O’Neill is gruff and droll all at the same time, sarcasm underlying his words and yet it’s not at her expense. She considers as she responds.

“It was the one continent I never set foot on.”

“It's one of my least favorite continents,” he says, a grimace on his face.

She shrugs. “I kinda like it here.”

His shock is palpable. “You like it here?” He’s indulging her, even as he’s genuinely intrigued.

“Yes, sir,” Joan says, checking her instruments. “Be there in about ten minutes, sir.”

He lets her be, probably rolling over in his mind the kind of person who likes living in Antarctica and finding her lacking.

***

Sheppard sees the glint of the sun on something, just as the outpost puts out an alert.

All inbound craft, we have a rogue drone that can seek a target on its own. Land immediately and shut down your engines. This is not a drill. I repeat ...

“It's too late. Hang on!” she shouts to the general as she veers the machine, dodging the incoming missile.

It’s coming back though – must be heat-seeking. She handles the stick again, pulling off to the left with a sharp twist of her wrist. Beside Joan, O’Neill clutches at the assist notch in the roof of the copter. 

“Break right,” he yells over the headset.

Sheppard breaks left instead; she’s never been good with following orders.

“I said right!”

“I’m getting to that, sir,” she responds, calmly, and when it’s close enough, she banks to the right, causing it to overshoot.

They’ve lost it, it seems, but the thing seems determined and until she sees it explode or downed, Joan doesn’t trust it.

“I can’t see it,” she warns her passenger.

“Pull up! Pull up!” the general shouts back, and now she can make it out, coming right at them.

But there’s no time to pull up and she thinks – yes, there it is. Joan pushes the throttle all the way forward and takes them over the snow shelf and down into a valley just as the drone zooms over where they were flying a moment ago.

Beside her, O’Neill looks slightly green, but it could just be the sun shining off his snow jacket. “What about now?” he chokes out, sardonic. 

“Now’s good,” she says, not looking to push her luck too much, either with the general or the drone. Especially not when the drone comes at them again and she has to pull up sharply to avoid it. She lands the helicopter on a slightly smaller ridge that is well below the peaks they were above, but also won’t be difficult to take off from. 

“Shut it down!” he hollers at Sheppard and she yanks on the emergency handle to shut the engines off.

Joan feels exhilarated, high almost, like she just pulled off a daring rescue on low fuel. There’s nothing like flying.

“Sir? What the hell was that?”  
She had no idea there was weapons testing going on around McMurdo. She’s pretty sure they’re banned, actually, per the Antarctic Treaty. Military personnel on the continent is one thing, but she saw that weapon with her own eyes.

General O’Neill holds up a finger. “Wait for it.”

That’s when she sees it, the glowing drone headed right for them. They’re sitting ducks. She shouts, “Get out!” and dives out of the flight chair, landing almost face-first in the powdery snow.

When she doesn’t hear an explosion after a few moments of eating snow, she clambers to her feet and drags her heavy boots back to the copter. O’Neill is settling back into the passenger seat, looking a little winded, but relatively calm. The drone is dead in the snow on the other side of the helicopter.

“That was different,” she says as she starts the checklist to get the copter ready for flight again. Going through the route steps allows her heartrate to begin to slow down.

“For me, not so much,” the general responds.

She looks askance at him but keeps her whirling thoughts to herself. If they really are doing weapons testing out here and without permission or exception of the treaty, she’s going to keep her head down and not say a word. Guantanamo would be too hot at this point after a year on Antarctica.

She reports to the outpost that the drone has been disengaged and ETA is seven minutes. If nothing else, the chase made the last part of the trip go by fast.

The remainder is done in silence. Soon, she can see the giant glass dome, like something you might see housing a greenhouse or a museum lobby, that indicates the outpost. There’s a large hole in it, which Sheppard assumes was made by the rogue drone.

She lands them on a flat field of snow with a bunch of trucks and snowmobiles.

“That was some fancy footwork out there, Major,” O’Neill says, once the engines are silent once more.

“Thank you, sir,” she says. She takes off the headset and seatbelt, settles into the seat, preparing for a long wait in the copter. She’ll reload with fuel, but she has no idea how long the general will be there and her heart needs to finish calming down a bit first.

“What are you doing?” he asks, turning to her, his brow furrowed over his sun goggles.

“Waiting? Sir?” Joan blinks at him under her own Ray-bans.

“Nah,” the man says and jumps out. “You’re coming in. I’m not that much an asshole to keep you waiting in the cold. I’m officially giving you security clearance for this site.”

“Yes, sir,” Sheppard replies, flummoxed. At first, she thinks it’s a sense of chivalry that underlies his offer – it wouldn’t be the first time – but then the _clearance granted_ hits her.

She trails after him into the building, leaving her glasses in the copter, enjoying the blast of heat and the thaw it begins on her snow encrusted pants. The entrance has only one guard standing there, looking more bored than anyone should. They each flash their IDs and O’Neill tells the Marine to add Sheppard to the guest and clearance lists. A stony expression and a sharp nod are all they get aside from one brief gesture to an elevator.

“Friendly,” Sheppard notes as the gate shuts and O’Neill snorts.

They’re greeted at the bottom by a mousey brown-haired man with glasses who could be mistaken for military if not for his civvies.

“Jack!” the man greets General O’Neill.

“Daniel! Warm welcome,” is the response, light and playful. Joan assumes the two are friends.

“Wasn't me. How did you manage to, uh ...?” Daniel asks as he pushes up his glasses and starts to lead them further into the underground outpost. He makes a gesture that Joan supposes is supposed to encapsulate _survive a rogue heat-seeking drone_.

“Keep my ass from gettin' blown out of the sky?” the general turns and gestures to Sheppard. “The exceptional flying of Major Joan Sheppard. She likes it here.”

Joan thinks she should be offended, the way O’Neill annunciates that she likes it. She continues to stand and stare at them both.

“Exceptional,” the civilian – Daniel – says and sounds impressed. Then he does a double take, surprised. “You like it here?”

She shrugs.

Daniel eyes her up and down, taking her in as swift and sure as a military man might. Then, just as easily, she’s dismissed in favor of General O’Neill.

Well, that’s new.

“What say we skip to the part where you start talking real fast?” O’Neill is saying as they begin to walk away.

“Ah. Weir's in here,” Daniel states and begins to usher O’Neill further into the complex before O’Neill pauses and turns back to Joan.

“Hey. Don’t touch anything.”

“Yes, sir,” she says.

The two leave her to stand in the middle of a secret project she’s never heard about. She’s garnering looks. She suspects that, even in what is clearly a mix of scientists and military, she stands out as a new face. A few of the looks are appreciative, some are simply confused, and others dismiss her as quick as O’Neill’s friend.

Sheppard runs a hand through her cropped hair, trying to tame a few of the cowlicks and gives up just as fast; it’s her one nervous habit.

She waits.

***

Joan is one of the first female pilots allowed into combat. It’s not by Pentagon dictate though. Her unit is deployed and essentially, they forget to reassign her. So Major Sheppard goes in with her air unit and one fateful day, they’re caught, blind-sided by terrorists shooting an RPG at them.

Captain Holland’s copter goes down.

The remaining two, including Sheppard’s, fly back to base with their asset secured. As soon as she touches down, she’s demanding to be allowed to go back and get her airman. As commanding officer, it’s her right.

She’s shut down by the base commander, though. Colonel Bergdorm is a gruff Army man, annoyed that AF was attached instead of his own branch’s flight units. He’s made several references to _pansy Air Force boys_ and _letting women fly in wa_ r. He waves her – and Holland – off, tells her they’ll coordinate with the locals.

She storms off, exiting the Colonel’s office shack. She notes her helicopter’s been fueled up again. Something grips her tight, and before she even knows it, she’s back in the air. The crew on the ground don’t know she’s been explicitly told not to rescue Holland, so there’s no interference, not until she’s already a klick away from base. Then, Bergdorm comes on over the radio, his southern accent not making his words any sweeter as he demands she return U.S. government property, that he’ll have her court martialed for her actions and after less than a minute of ranting, she turns off her radio.

The thing is, Holland went down directly in enemy territory. Flying in, Sheppard’s tail rotor is hit; a lucky shot. She crashes more than lands, but it’s far enough away from the shooters and close enough to where Holland went down, she knows she can make it.

Exhausted already by the time she crests a sand dune to find an old Russian helicopter providing shade, she’s reconsidering her lack of a plan. Then, she catches sight of movement that could have been nothing more than an old rag, but she knows Captain Holland and she knows that fabric.

Ten minutes later, Holland is berating her for returning to find him and asking her where her crew is.

“You flew back in here alone, didn't you? Against orders – am I right?” the airman says.

She takes in Holland’s sandy hair, his dusty uniform, the gash on his thigh she’s only just wrapped. “Yeah. Command was taking too long coordinating extraction scenarios with the Afghans. I didn't think I could wait much longer...and from the looks of it, I was right.”

Holland rolls his eyes affectionately. “You know, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were sweet on me, Major.”

She snorts, casting about for anything that might work as a flare from the ancient wreck. “Good thing you do know me better.”

“Yeah,” Holland says. “You just like showing people up. Never gonna let me live this one down, are you?”

“Nope,” she responds, with a small smirk. “I get you out of here, they’ll be calling me Lieutenant Colonel.”

Holland snorts. “They’ll be calling up your court martial.” He winces as she moves his leg.

It’s bad.

Holland seems to know, and he looks up at her, his brow furrowed and his lip between his teeth. Then he coughs and looks down. “You get me out of here, my wife and kids will thank you.” He looks back up. “Now, where’s our ride?”

Her response is a grimace.

“Fuck. Now we’re both gonna die out here.”

“Well, _there's_ the Holland I know. Always so positive.”

“Place is crawling with Taliban,” he says, like telling her is going to change the situation.

“Yeah. There _are_ a few here and there.”

“A few as in how many?”

“Six or so. We can take 'em.”

Holland looks at her, something like awe warring with incredulity. “You’re a crazy bitch, ma’am.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.” She looks around the end of the copter. She can see two snipers; guns glinting in the sunlight. Sheppard knows there’s more on foot, making their way down the dune.

“I'm gonna get you out of here, Captain. Don't worry. Then, you buy the first-round back in Kandahar.”

“You get me out of here, I’ll make you my kids’ godparent, Major.”

***

Joan stands at Captain Holland’s funeral instead, and his kids don’t even know who she is.

***

Eventually, Joan begins to wander around the base. She’s apparently been in the way of some very important scientists – based on their annoyed looks and huffs – staying on the move at least means she won’t feel as awkward when they sidestep her.

The complex is fascinating, made of curves. The technology is nothing like she’s ever seen. It seems to be retrofitted to tech she does know so she wonders if it’s all developmental technology or if it’s been stolen from another country. She overhears voices and walks towards them, just for something to do aside from aimlessly wander.

“The second I shut my eyes, I could see. I felt power I've never had before. I had it dancing all across the sky. It was magical, it really was.” The man speaking in an Irish – Scottish? – accent laughs. Other voices chime in. “They're lucky. I don't know where it came from. I just tried to concentrate, and the drone shut itself down.”

She rounds the corner and announces herself, “So you were the one.”

The brunet man who was speaking blinks and shuffles nervously. “Me?”

Joan walks over to the chair. It’s a curious thing, like something in a video game. “You were the one who fired that thing at me.”

“Look, we're doing research; working with technology that's light years beyond us and we make mistakes. I'm incredibly, incredibly sorry.” The man looks at her beseeching, clearly contrite.

She shrugs, gives a half-smile. “Well, next time just be a little more careful, okay?”

The scientist – based on his comments on research – heaves a heavy sigh of relief. “That's what I said.”

“What the hell was that thing anyway?” she asks, curiosity getting the better of her.

“You mean the drone?” he asks.

Sheppard nods. 

“The weapon the Ancients built to defend this outpost.”

“The who?” she looks back up at him, watching his face turn wary.

“You do have security clearance to be here?”

She wants to laugh but restrains it to a small huff of air the man won’t hear. “Yeah, yeah. General O'Neill just gave it to me.”

His friendly face goes lax in surprise, eyes widening like saucers. “Then you don't even know about the Stargate.”

“The what?”

She spends the next ten minutes feeling slightly dizzy as a man whose name she doesn’t even know yet starts talking about aliens and wormholes and weapons from the past more advanced than anything on Earth.

She’s never been more grateful for military briefings as right then, because at least the explanation wouldn’t be so rambling and excitedly filled with interjections and tangents. Not that the man isn’t fun to listen to in a way, but it’s a _lot_.

He moves on to genetics, and she suspects he’s actually a doctor rather than a scientist based on the ease with which he drops medical jargon. “…They think the gene was used as a sort of genetic key, if you will, so that only their kind could operate certain dangerous and powerful technologies.”

Sheppard pokes at the chair, tentative, as the man continues his spiel. It’s got some sort of jelly-like substance. It definitely looks like something out of her nephew’s favorite video game. “So, some people have the same genes as these Ancients.” That’s about what she’s gotten out of it all.

She walks around the chair, examining it as he continues. “The specific gene is very rare, but on the whole, they look very much like we do. In fact, they were first. We're the second evolution of this form, the Ancients having explored this galaxy for millions of years before—Major, please don't.”

It doesn’t look particularly comfortable, but there’s probably something to be said about being comfortable while blasting your enemy out of the sky. She’s not one to comment on politics, but sometimes it’s too easy, the young Air Force kids sitting in rooms directing bombs with joysticks. If she’s going to kill someone, she’ll be there herself.

She starts to sit in the chair even over the scientist’s objections. “Come on. What are the odds of me having the same genes as these guys?”

Her mother told her to never voice things if she didn’t want them to happen and it seems she should have listened because as soon as Joan opens her mouth and sits, the chair lights up and she’s suddenly inclined in the seat looking up, up, up into that glass dome above the outpost, the chair shining like something in an arcade.

Joan barely glances at the man’s white face as he tells her, “Quite slim, actually,” and then yells out for someone else. “Doctor Weir!” He turns back to her before running off in the direction he was calling. “Don’t move.”

Honestly, she’s too stunned to do anything and within thirty seconds, a kind-looking woman with shoulder-length brown hair, a slightly chubby man in an orange fleece, and O’Neill and Daniel are in front of her, as well as the man with the accent from before, each with a different version of shock on their faces.

The woman steps up, eyeing Sheppard up as quick as O’Neill and Daniel before her. Sheppard’s never been a slouch, but she’s beginning to feel out of place. “Who is this?” she directs to the men with her.

O’Neill turns to Joan and says, “I said don't touch anything,” with a hint of exasperation in his voice. It’s also…fond? Like perhaps the general is used to things randomly activating when people go near them. Based on the bits she comprehended about the Ancients and their genes, she supposes that’s not too far off.

“I, I just sat down,” she says, hating the confusion and almost whine to her voice.

The man in the orange steps forward and she’s instantly taken with his intense blue eyes and expression. If the man who accidentally fired the drone at her was nervously excited, this man is confidently intrigued. “Major, think about where we are in the solar system.”

She spares a thought that he must work with the military a lot to recognize her rank so quick and then thinks about every trip to the planetarium she’s been to.

Above her head springs a fully three-dimension navigational chart; the image is transparent and precise, orange and blue lines indicating orbits and celestial objects with white dots probably representing stars further out from the solar system.

She frowns. “Did I do that?”

***

The day passes by in a blur of Ancient-tech and gene testing and _actual_ briefings. She finally thinks she’s getting the picture of the aliens – multiple kinds – the genes, and just why the man in the orange – McKay – is both thrilled and somewhat bitter towards her. 

That jealousy sure hasn’t stopped him from eyeing her up and down, though. In between various meetings, he’d come up to her, chocolate snack of some kind in his hand, leaning his hip on a counter and jutted his chin at her.

“You know, I normally prefer blondes, but I do like them dumb and hot and that’s you to a tee.”

Joan chokes on her weak tea, eyes widening. She’s almost impressed at the audacity, if entirely disinterested. His blue eyes shine earnestly.

“I think you should work on your pick-up lines, Doctor McKay,” she responds and walks away to his muttered, “Huh, that normally works,” rolling her eyes.

Only to run into Doctor Weir in the next room. She takes one glance at Joan and tilts her head, says softly, “Rodney?”

“McKay?”

“Yes,” Weir laughs. “He’s relatively harmless.”

Sheppard raises her eyebrows.

Weir spreads her hands. “He’s a bit of your cliché male scientist, I’m afraid. Constantly flirting and awkwardly so. But he doesn’t cross lines.”

“He’s very confident in his approach,” Joan notes.

“Overly, perhaps. You’ll find Rodney is confident about many things and he’s almost always right.”

“I will?” she asks, curious about how she might find out anything more about the astrophysicist. He’s apparently going to be leaving the galaxy, soon.

Doctor Weir smiles, soft and gentle, with a slight curve to her lip on the right side. “Major. Joan. I’d like you to come with us.”

“To where?”

“Atlantis, of course,” Weir states, as if it’s as simple as that. 

“Oh, of course,” Sheppard responds, feeling a little light-headed. “Ma’am, no offense intended, but you only just met me. I don’t think I’m someone you want on this mission.”

The woman smiles again, tilting her head up the two inches it takes to look Joan in the face. “I’ve read your file, Major. I’m not particularly concerned. And we need all the gene holders as we can find.”

Joan, shifts, hands in her pockets, uncomfortable. “I’m sorry, Doctor Weir. While the offer is very kind, I’m afraid I have to turn it down.” She smiles, her awkward little twist of lips she gets when she’s apologetic and trying to smooth things over.

“You don’t want to hear my offer?”

“I mean, I imagine the hazard pay is phenomenal, all things considered but…” she shrugs, a roll of her shoulders and nothing else. “Trust me. I’m not who you want.”

When Weir looks at her, somehow both authoritatively and beseechingly, Joan sighs and amends, “I’ll think about it.”

Then Joan turns her back on Weir and walks away, back towards the elevator shaft she came down. It looks like O’Neill is almost done, anyway. She’ll wait, fly him back, settle back into her small room at McMurdo and three months of cold from now, this will all be like a dream. A strange fantasy where she doesn’t disappoint anyone, and no one expects her to be anything but a shuttle pilot.

***

Joan isn’t there for Dave’s high school graduation. Four years younger than she is, Joan’s already received her commission when he graduates. The two ceremonies happen the same weekend; one guess as to which one her father attended.

Hint: it wasn’t Joan’s.

Growing up, her mother had constantly been sighing at her when Joan came home with a new hole in her jeans or dirt on her skirt. Still, for all the _Joan Sheppard_ ’s she received, Joan knew she was loved. Her mother told her she could do anything and to keep putting those boys in their place. Her mother constantly indulged her love for things that went fast and high, pushing her on swing sets as a kid, taking her on the Ferris Wheel when Joan begged to go to the traveling carnival, because it was the only ride she was allowed on given she was seven months pregnant with Joan’s brother at the time.

Her mother’s passing was the final factor in Sheppard deciding to apply to the Air Force Academy.

She sought out the political contacts her father had on her own, and the local politicians and district Congressman all smiled at her fondly and assured they wouldn’t tell her father – because she wanted to surprise him with her acceptance, of course – and given it was the eighties and Congress was yet again debating the use of women in combat, they all happily wrote the letters for her; anything to assure constituents of their progressive stance while remaining strictly pro-military.

Her father was indeed surprised when she showed him her acceptance, but it wasn’t the joyful surprise she’d led her letter writers to believe. Instead, there was a knock-out fight loud enough to raise Dave from sleep and then it became a whole other thing because Dave had state track meet the next day and couldn’t Joan ever stop thinking about herself for once?

The day she turned eighteen, two days before graduation, she moved out. She slept over at a friend’s house those two nights and then rode the bus cross-country for an early round of training at Colorado Springs.

She never looked back.

***

Sheppard should have known better. Five minutes in General O’Neill’s company, she should have known he wasn’t a man to give up – and maybe he didn’t care about _her_ , but he clearly cared about the mission and Weir, and his friend Daniel’s obsession with a city in another galaxy.

She’s going through pre-flight checks when he slides into the copter with her. “This isn't a long trip, so I'll be as succinct as possible.”

She continues to check fluid levels and when he doesn’t say anything else, she looks up and notes, “Well, that's pretty succinct.”

“Thank you,” the man responds, and Sheppard has to hold a snort back. She thinks, if she spent time with him, she might even come to like him. That said, generals aren’t usually fond of _her_.

Knowing what he’s after, Joan sighs. “I told Doctor Weir that ... I'd think about it.”

“And? So? Well? What?!”

The engines roar to life.

“All due respect, sir, we were just attacked by an alien missile. Then I found out I have some mutant gene. Then there's this Stargate thing and these expeditions to other galaxies.”

It’s not the whole truth, but it is some of the truth. Joan’s head is still reeling with all the implications of the things she’s learned in the last few hours; things she never asked for and frankly, never wanted to know. She was content fighting terrorists and, after the incident, being shuffled around to the depths of the planet – with no thoughts that there might be anything else out there.

“You know, this isn't about you, Sheppard. It's a lot bigger than that.”

“Right now, at this very second, whether I decide to go on this mission or not seems to be about me.” She knows she’s being a bit snarky, probably not the best idea when talking to a general. Sheppard’s never been great at ‘best ideas’. Hence, Antarctica. 

She switches over to the headset, after putting on her helmet. She sees the general’s mouth moving but with the headset, she can’t hear him as she takes the bird off the flat ice field serving as an airstrip.

Then, in that tinny metallic voice of the flight headset, “Why d'you become a pilot?”

“I think people who don't want to fly are crazy.” She’s always felt that way, from her first Ferris Wheel ride at age four; it’s her first concrete memory.

“And I think people who don't want to go through the Stargate are equally as whacked. Now, if you can't give me a yes by the time we reach McMurdo, I don't even want you.”

O’Neill’s words are impassioned, even as they are as snarky as her own. He clicks off his headset and leans back, seemingly content to let Sheppard fly him back, settling in for a quick nap.

***

In the end – a whole twenty minutes later – they land, and General O’Neill looks at her expectantly.

“Alright,” she says. “I’ll go.”

***

The thing is, she’s still not sure. There’s a whirlwind of activity as the general arranges for her to come back states-side in preparation for more preparation. Less than a week later, _she’s_ the passenger as a young lieutenant flies a C-30 back from McMurdo to a Navy base in Brazil. From there, within thirty-six hours, Joan is back in the United States, at home in California, where she maintains a small apartment, outside San Francisco.

Once there, even though she’s already in the process of having the military put her stuff in storage, she decides to take one last stroll through Golden Gate Park. She’s being flown to Colorado the next day, so this is the last chance she’ll have – maybe ever – to see the Pacific shine in the early morning light, the fog rolling off the bay to reveal the bridge and a city she barely knows.

It’s too early for anything more than the dogwalkers and a couple of families, a few nannies with the family kids, and the mid-morning joggers. In about two hours, the tourists and the college kids will show up, but for now, it’s relatively peaceful.

The thing is, Joan isn’t worried about leaving her stuff or leaving people, or even leaving Earth. She’s constantly moved her whole adult life, never really become attached to anyone or anything once she left her family on the east coast for the military, against their wishes. She doesn’t talk to them, not really, and the last time she spoke to Nathan was after her court martial. Even that had been nothing more than a courtesy, asking if she needed money.

Just one more thing her ex never understood – that Joan didn’t care about money or prestige. If she had, she wouldn’t have left the family business.

She curls deeper into her fleece, the breeze off the ocean chilly. It ruffles her short strands. In her pocket, she finds a coin. Out of curiosity, she flips it. Heads, Atlantis; tails, she forgets it all and resigns her commission, forget about retirement.

She snatches it out of the air, slapping it on the back of her hand. Sheppard doesn’t look at first, hesitating, then removes her hand.

***

Final preparations for the Atlantis mission take another month once Joan reaches Cheyenne Mountain. It’s there that she meets the commanding military officer for Atlantis.

Colonel Marshall Sumner, Marine Corps.

He makes his displeasure known instantly and obviously. His initial words to her are so cold, the scientists in the room flinch.

Funny enough, his caustic tone brings a smile on her face, the first since she’s gotten to Cheyenne.

“Something funny, Major?” the colonel asks with dripping disdain. 

“No, sir,” she says, as polite as possible, but even a few of Sumner’s men let out a quiet chuckle. Of course, at least one of those laughing has also been harassing her and doing some not-so-subtle ‘accidental’ groping whenever she walks by, so she’s not that impressed.

He makes her train harder than his own Marines, like she’s some kind of young cadet instead of a senior military officer herself. However, now that she’s accepted the mission, she’s determined to do well. She and Doctor Weir have had several additional conversations, Doctor Beckett and she have grown, well, as close as one can with one’s doctor, and she’s even beginning to find Rodney’s flirting more endearing than annoying. To a point.

It helps that she’s finally seen the true object of his affection: Samantha Carter. The lieutenant colonel had stopped by, checking in once with the senior staff for the Atlantis mission, and Rodney’s crush was as obvious as the fact that Carter and O’Neill have something going on.

So, Joan accepts Sumner’s drills and harsh yelling like she’s an eighteen-year-old again, pushing her aging body, determined – as she always has been – to show the assholes that it’s not about gender.

One day, Weir pulls her aside and asks, “Do I need to speak to the Colonel?”

Sheppard smiles, the casual, easy-going one she’s always saved for those who treat her like shit and those who want to let her into their confidence alike. “No, ma’am.”

Weir looks her up and down, thin arms crossed, assessing. “I get it, Major. Maybe more than you realize, or maybe as much as you do. I won’t claim being a woman in my field faces the same exact issues as being a woman in yours, but I am used to being dismissed by my bosses, by leaders from other countries, and even by leaders in our own supposed enlightened country. I ran this base on behalf of the IOA for several months before being replaced by yet another man. Fortunately, O’Neill stuck up for me, as did the body of my own work.

“You have the burden of being a woman and so everything you do is placed under a microscope. I read your file; I don’t agree with the assessment your superiors made. I value those who place lives above orders – until the point where lives are discarded in favor of ignoring orders. So, fine, I’ll let you and Sumner battle it out.”

She shifts, running a hand through chestnut curls. She places her hands on her hips and taps one foot. Weir is small, but she’s still a commanding presence and Joan understands the power this woman truly holds. It’s greater than anything Sheppard will achieve. 

“But, if it’s any kind of balm you’ve already made friends with several of the scientists here. And I’d like to consider you a friend, as well. Just know we see you, and, should there be a scientist versus military friendly game of flag football…well, we’d put you on our team.”

Sheppard keeps her response to a friendly nod – she can’t afford to antagonize, or even _think_ in sides – but it is a sweet offer, if uncalled for.

Still, the day comes when they’re ready to dial Atlantis, when all the scientists are as prepared as they can, when the military members have been formed into some sort of team consisting of all the branches, and the higher-ups are brimming over with anxiety and a need to defend their funding, and she walks into the Gateroom to go through the Stargate for the first time. Joan wears her backpack, P-90 at her side and sees the Colonel starring at her like she’s something stuck to his shoe.

Joan lets her mouth quirk up. “Colonel.” She walks past him, moving to meet up with Lieutenant Ford, a young airman who’s taken to following her around like a puppy. The sentiment is as sweet as Weir’s. Ford is by no way disrespectful to Sumner, but she’s seen this behavior before and in a way, it’s nice to know that at nearly forty, she can still attract a crush.

Weir, up in the boardroom that looks over the Gateroom, announces that they’ll be sending a M.A.L.P. through first and then, if viable, everyone in the room will follow and find themselves in another galaxy. Joan tenses when she feels Sumner step closer. She busies herself with her equipment.

“Let me make myself clear, Major—”

The dialing technician begins to call out the chevrons as they are encoded.

“You are not here by my choice.”

It’s nothing new, nor has that fact failed to be obvious up to this point. Still, she responds like it is, “I'm sure you'll warm up to me once you get to know me, sir.”

Like a month of practice drills and enforced closed quarters wouldn’t have done that already.

“As long as you remember who's giving the orders,” the man concludes, a glower in his light blue eyes before he turns to walk away.

It’s too easy, Joan simply can’t resist. “That would be Doctor Weir, right?” she says to his back.

She smiles, knowing it doesn’t reach her eyes, even as Sumner glares. The smile remains, even as he walks away.

It vanishes as the Stargate opens with a whoosh that looks like a jet of water but is, apparently, the effect of the matter stream linking the two gates. It’s as beautiful as it is terrifying.

Not even five minutes later, Sumner apparently gets the all-clear from above because he moves to the front of the mass of scientists and military personnel.

“Let's go, people. We don't know how much time we've got.” He begins to walk up the ramp, some of his Marines following. He turns around, facing them and the group in the Gateroom. “Security teams one and two, you're up first. All other personnel will follow on our signal. Once on the other side, keep moving, clear the debarkation area. On my lead.”

There are light, rapid footsteps and then Weir’s voice calling out. “Hold on, Colonel.” She picks up her backpack that’s been laying off to the side of the ramp, fitting it on over her red collared athletic shirt. She walks up to Sumner. “We go through together.” Her voice is firm.

“Fair enough,” responds the Colonel.

They walk together and while Sumner goes right on through, Weir looks back, up and at the window overlooking the room. Whatever she sees causes her face to set, determined, but with a hint of excitement shining in her eyes. She goes on through, vanishing into the blueness.

Sheppard walks up the ramp, Ford right beside her.

“All clear. Looks good,” says Sumner’s voice, over the intercom, across a galaxy.

The mic inside the Gateroom crackles to life. “Expedition team. Move out,” says the general.

The two of them reach the Stargate. Joan takes a breath, nervous.

“What’s it feel like?” she asks Ford.

The young lieutenant looks at her, concern etched on his handsome face. “Hurts like hell, ma’am.”

He holds it for maybe two lingering seconds before he grins and winks at her, literally jumping through backwards with a cheer more fit for a football game than a military mission.

Still, a small amount of doubt has her swiping the end of her P-90 through the water-looking substance and then, she squints her eyes and dives in.

***

Joan emerges from the other end into a dark room with a few ambient lights. She feels cold, like she’s been dumped in an ice bath. The first few Marines who followed Sumner and Weir are already cautiously surveying the area, the lights on their P-90s lit. She looks back at the gate – this one looks different than the one on Earth. More…modern, somehow. Like the difference between digital and analog. Or a VCR and a DVD player.

Personnel continue to come through and now the scientists are starting to follow, loads of gear coming along with them. She moves out of the way, noting how a door just slid open in front of one of the point Marines.

Even Sumner looks surprised before his face falls back into flatness. “Everyone find an open space and park it until instructed otherwise.”

McKay has come through the gate and with one look exchanged, both Sheppard and the scientist begin moving together up the stairs. Joan stops almost as fast as she starts, though, one foot on the first step. The step that is now lit up, a cool blue.

Weir, still in the middle of the room surrounding this gate calls out, as several more steps begin to glow, and even a few lights that are likely equivalent to sconces outside a house. Or, given this Atlantis is meant to be a city, maybe they’re better likened to lamp posts. “Who’s doing that?”

Sheppard continues up the stairs, following now behind the physicist. As they continue up, more lights slowly turn on, the area around them illuminating enough that they can make out the dais they’re standing on and the wide array of technology – it almost looks like a control platform.

“Security teams: any alien contact?”

“Negative, sir.”

“Team Four. Negative, Colonel.”

Sheppard speaks up, half to herself, half to McKay and Weir, who has also walked up to where they stand. “The lights are coming on by themselves.”

As the rest of the mission personnel continue to come through the gate, Sheppard moves over to the balcony looking down on the Gateroom. McKay is already lifting plastic sheets that rest like covers over furniture in closed, old houses, punching at various buttons, fiddling with his tech.

Not twenty minutes after they sent the M.A.L.P. through, Sumner tells Weir, “That’s everyone.”

Weir lifts the radio to her mouth, announcing what, for the moment, will be their last communication with Earth, “General O'Neill. Atlantis base offers greetings from the Pegasus Galaxy. You may cut power to the Gate.”

There’s a light glass sound as a bottle rolls in through the Stargate, and then it shuts down.

Weir picks it up, holding it aloft for all to see. She’s facing McKay and Joan, though. Sheppard nods down at the commander of this intergalactic mission.

***

In less than three hours of being on Atlantis, the expedition finds itself doomed. Beckett found the introductory hologram left by the Ancients, Joan discovered they were underwater, and McKay realized they were draining Atlantis’ few remaining resources at a very fast rate. Fast enough to suggest the mission can’t continue, not there. With no way back to Earth, they’re all about to become refugees, rather than explorers.

Sumner gathers two teams to bring through the gate; Weir sends Sheppard along.

Once they’ve established a connection and the M.A.L.P. has gone through with no initial resistance, they head back through the Stargate. Joan turns and waves at the senior staff waiting on the balcony as she takes only her second trip through the gate.

The team spreads out as they exit the gate on the other side. It still feels cold on Joan’s face, but not as stinging as the first time. It’s followed by a warm wind, at least, easing the chill as quick as it came. 

Whatever planet they’re on, it’s night. The area immediately around the gate is clear, but not too far off, there are woods surrounding the gate. There’s one of those – what did McKay call it – a D.H.D. about fifty feet from the gate. It too looks more modern than the ones Sheppard was shown from the Milky Way gates. They press forward, Sheppard taking the tree edge.

Suddenly, there’s a light sound of crashing, maybe an animal, maybe a monster. She holds up her fist, signaling the teams to stop. She waves them forward after a moment, moving slow and signaling Ford to move in step with her. Then, a small figure bursts through the trees and stares up at Sheppard. Ford’s gun is pointed right at it.

It’s a child.

Before she can do anything, a second figure tumbles through the underbrush and collides into the first, both going down. Chaos breaks out, the other soldiers overhearing the noise and rushing in close to Sheppard’s position. 

Two boys stare up at them in terror.

“Please, don’t hurt us!” one calls out.

Still a third person – a grown man – comes through the bushes, placing himself in front of the two children. “Please! They’re just playing!”

Everyone’s on edge and Sheppard lowers her gun, even as Ford’s remains high.

Sumner pushes through the crowded Marines, asks, “Is everything okay here, Sheppard?”

She pushes up her night goggles off her face. “Yes, sir. Just a couple of kids.”

With that, the other Marines lower their weapons.

The man stands once he’s righted the kids; he’s the tallest person around. “Halling,” he says with a gesture.

Running blank, Joan stares at him. “I don’t know what that means.”

She can hear Sumner’s eyeroll in his voice. “It’s his _name_ ,” he points out, sarcastically.

“Oh,” she realizes. “Halling. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Are you here to trade?” he asks her.

Surprisingly, Halling continues to focus on her, rather than Sumner, or any of the other men in the crowd. Perhaps, she’s an easier face to deal with. Or perhaps, it’s because she was the first to lower her weapon.

“Trade. Yes, we’re traders,” she stammers out.

Halling bends down and addresses the two children. “Now, how many times have I told you not to play in the forest after dark? I'm just glad you're safe.”

As he speaks, Halling places his thumbs alongside the first boy’s face. He pulls him in for a forehead touch. She’s beginning to suspect the boy is Halling’s son. The man stands, once more towering over her. “Teyla will wish to meet with you. Come.”

Halling begins walking away, along the edge of the forest but still in the clearing, not waiting for them, leading the boys back.

Sumner calls out, “Parker, Smitty, you're on Gate duty. Dial Atlantis base and let the good Doctor know we've made contact with the indigenous people.”

The cool glance he gives Sheppard is enough for her to step back, let the Colonel take Ford and point, following Halling wherever the man is leading them.

She doesn’t try to eavesdrop, she really doesn’t. Sheppard’s just always had good ears.

Ford asks, his voice soft and confused. “Sir, if you don't mind my asking, I noticed you got a problem with Major Sheppard.”

Joan can hear the itch in the young airman to ask if it’s because Sheppard’s a woman.

Sumner responds, his voice gruff with annoyance. “My problem, Lieutenant, is with his record. I don't like anybody who doesn't follow the proper chain of command.”

Joan snorts to herself. Yeah, Sumner might believe that. She can’t help but wonder, though, if she were male, if he’d have just as much an issue with it.

“Yes, sir,” floats back Ford’s voice, dubious.

She smiles as she marches behind them, the darkness hiding it. One of the boys falls back and steps in line with her. “What was that mask you had on?”

She takes off her goggles, hands them to the boy. “Helps you see in the dark. Check it out.”

The boy keeps her entertained until they reach a village of tents, lit with torches and candles. Halling shoos both children off before he invites Sumner, Ford, and her into one of the larger tents.

Inside, the air is warm and smells of meat and beeswax. There’s a hint of alcohol to the air, too, and when laughter bursts out, someone slams down a tankard and Sheppard realizes this is either dinnertime, or a festivity.

One of the people stand as they come in; a small woman, shorter than Doctor Weir, with warm brown skin and thick, light-brown hair that glints in the light with an auburn sheen. She stands with the confidence of a leader, exuding the same energy as Weir, if quieter. She’s more subtle about it, the smile on her face signaling friendliness, but her deep brown eyes are sharp.

“Teyla, these men wish to trade.”

It’s strange that Halling doesn’t add the usual qualifier of _and women_ or _and lady_. When no one else speaks up, Sheppard takes a step forward and says, “It’s, uh, nice to meet you.”

The thing is, Teyla is beautiful and that fact just might have taken Joan’s breath away a bit.

“I am Teyla Emmagan, daughter of Turghan.” Her voice is as rich as her laugh, honey and warm spice curling around her vowels.

Sumner finally speaks up, shifting his weapon. “Colonel Marshall Sumner, Major Sheppard, Lieutenant Ford. We have very few specific needs.”

Teyla frowns. “We do not trade with strangers.”

“Is that a fact?” Sumner drawls and Sheppard winces, internally.

Sheppard tries to salvage it. “Well, then, we'll just, uh, we'll have to get to know each other. Me, um, I like, uh, Ferris Wheels and, uh, college football. Anything that goes more than two hundred miles per hour.”

Ford leans into Sheppard, whispering, like that somehow will mean the people standing four feet away won’t hear him. “Ma’am, that’s not going to mean anything to them.”

Resisting the urge to sigh heavily, she responds, as quiet, “Feel free to speak up. I’m just trying to break the ice.”

Ford leans back, looking disgruntled. 

“If these people can't help us, I'd rather not waste the time.” Sumner still remains closed, from his face to his body language.

“Each morning before dawn our people drink a stout tea to brace us for the coming day. Will you join us?” Teyla asks.

Joan steps forward, arms casually posed on her weapon, trying to look as non-threatening as possible. Teyla only comes up to her shoulders.

“I love a good cup of tea. Now there's another thing you know about me. We're practically friends already!” Joan deliberately turns her smile on Sumner as well.

Teyla’s mouth turns back up after a moment; her eyes sparkling with amusement. She gestures for them to join the table.

***

The next day, shortly before twilight descends, Teyla brings Sheppard to the ruins to explain the Wraith better. She picks up a torch and before Joan can get her lighter out, Teyla lights it with a tool that looks similar.

“We mastered fire long ago.”

Sheppard grimaces as she puts away her lighter. “Guess so.”

As they walk, just a few meters into the cave and the base of the old city ruins, Joan sees something catch the light. She picks it up, turning it over, then brushing the dirt from it. 

“What’s this?” she asks, squinting at the piece of metal as best she can in the low light.

She feels more than sees Teyla turn around and then hears a small gasp. Joan looks up to see Teyla’s face lit by the torch, an expression of joy flickering across her face.

“I lost this years ago. How did you...?”

Sheppard shrugs, throwing a shoulder back to suggest where she found it. “It was just lying over there. It was reflecting off the light.”

She finishes brushing the dirt off of it, realizes it’s a necklace. When she next looks up, she realizes that Teyla has stepped much closer to her. Joan fingers the metal and then finds the ends. She begins to reach out and Teyla, carefully, lifts her mane of hair.

The moment is oddly heated, Sheppard’s fingers almost shaking as she moves in close enough to tie the leather together along Teyla’s neck. When she pulls away, both of them are breathing a bit harder. She can’t read Teyla’s expression though.

Joan steps back, grabbing the torch from Teyla and swings it at the walls, revealing the art she noticed before. “Someone’s been busy.” 

It breaks the tension, as intended, and Teyla adopts the tone of a dedicated professor.

“The drawings in the caves are extensive. Many must date back thousands of years – or more.”

What Sheppard finds out confirms that the Wraith must be the enemy the Ancient hologram spoke of and it sends shivers down her spine. She and Teyla begin the walk back to the village, arms swinging mere inches apart.

It’s strange, this feeling. Not that she finds herself attracted to another woman, no, that she’s known for some time, and been perfectly content to let sleeping dogs lie. In the military, it’s easier to be straight, always has been, and while she’s known many women – and men – who were gay and never once has she “told,” Joan’s always taken the easy route. Joan likes men and liking men is what’s expected of her. Anything else, was second rate to her career. No, flying has always been Joan’s first love. Maybe that didn’t save her marriage, but it didn’t end it either. 

Honestly, it’s not _career_ that has kept Sheppard from indulging certain interests. Her career was always nothing more than a means to continue flying. Sure, Joan could have become a commercial pilot – considered it after her divorce, after her court martial. But there’s a certain thrill to flying machines made for combat that has always appealed more than chauffeuring tourists and businessmen.

Not that she hadn’t been reduced to that in the end. The chauffeuring, anyway. Sheppard would never trade a Blackhawk for an Airbus though, and in the end, well, it’s gotten her to another galaxy and a whole new way of flying.

It’s more the deep connection. She’s known Teyla for less than twenty-four hours, five of them spent sleeping, and she’s never felt closer to another human being.

Teyla continues to talk about her people, the Athosians, and Sheppard listens with one ear. She fiddles with the necklace and steals glances at Joan all the while.

Sheppard amends her previous sentiment. It’s not only Teyla. After a month, Sheppard would say she’s closer to Weir, Beckett, hell, even Rodney, than anyone else since Nathan. She considers; it’s that feeling that’s throwing her off. She doesn’t go so far as to call them _friends_ , but they’re more than simply coworkers. And Teyla, well, she’s something different.

Suddenly, Teyla cuts herself off. She’s alert, sensing something.

Just then, Sheppard hears a far-off whine.

“What is it?” she asks, hands clutching her weapon now, rather than resting on it.

“The Wraith!” Teyla cries out and makes for the village at a run. Her hair flings out, glinting red in the evening light, her clothes fluttering behind her.

Sheppard races behind her, dread sneaking in as she attempts to catch up with the light-footed Teyla. How can she finally gain so much, if she’s only meant to lose it?

Joan runs.


End file.
